


(stay, i want to be) yours

by hartfeld (lyuyu)



Series: yours [2]
Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28659123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyuyu/pseuds/hartfeld
Summary: And he never left again.
Relationships: Tyril Starfury/Mal Volari
Series: yours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100330
Kudos: 3





	(stay, i want to be) yours

There is but one word that is considered somewhat of a taboo by them, a curse, one that neither one ever had dared utter or to even humor the thought of. They rarely found threat in something spoken, hells, they barely ever  _ spoke _ , yet now, when the thought has crept upon them, a result of too many nights spent under the same sheets, it has awoken the one wish that wasn’t supposed to come to them.

_ Stay: _ never a part of their vocabulary as a standalone, only accompanied by either “don’t” or “away”, not even once presented by itself.

See, they are both masters of  _ avoidance _ , Mal an expert on how to dance on his toes, how to work with traps, how to not get caught, and how to become one with shadows and disappear; and Tyril knows how to keep an enemy at an arm's length only to strike them down seconds later, with force much like the fury his name carries, too fast for eyes to catch, too swift and too ruthless.

The word  _ stay _ poses a conundrum upon them. It implies  _ attachment _ .

For that same reason, Tyril had made it a point to not return to Mal’s lips; though their bodies had found love in each other in other ways in the aftermath, the kiss of  _ that night _ remains the only one ever shared between the two of them. Instead, their other touches have now come to bear purpose, a carefully crafted language of their own, so subtle it often went without others noticing.

(Despite the new nature of their relationship, they still bicker whenever they can; Mal finds himself oddly taken with Tyril's frustrated pout.)

In the library, Tyril shoots out to close the book in Mal’s hands, fingers brushing, and their eyes meet for the shortest moment. A fleeting smirk visits his lips as he shakes his head, a good-natured warning,  _ “Don’t get any ideas,” _ though he should know by now that Mal Volari doesn’t respond to  _ negatives _ .

It would’ve been a miracle if his wordless request hadn’t fallen to deaf ears.

By virtue of his incurable disobedience (or 'curiosity', as he likes to claim), Mal later comes to learn that the nighttime of Undermount is not like any other he has experienced before. Lit by iridescent lights that sneak inside from the windows of Tyril's bedroom, they’re climbing down from the high of the long hours of honoring  _ The Lovers _ ; the lights dance on his skin, shining with hues of purple and blue, the only sounds in the room the wild beat of their hearts and breaths uneven and heavy.

Oftentimes it comes to this after, to a deep silence and awkward air lingering around them, minds riddled by thoughts with no meaning and nothing left to say apart from the forced chit chat that seems so often to follow, when Mal rises to leave. Only this time, when “ _Well, this was fun—I should get going_ ,” a line he has used more times than only a few, though rarely aimed at Tyril, airs, something foreign paints his words – hesitation, uncertainty? His eyes search for something nonexistent, glued tightly to the ceiling and not a muscle moving despite his classic exit speech.

It’s the pang of an unwanted feeling that makes him unable to move. A feeling this never was supposed to lead to, not between them.

It wasn't supposed to be possible, for gods' sake, an elf and a human, a noble and a rebel. They were driven, but driven in different directions, their journeys were never supposed to entwine, at least not like this, where he finds himself not wanting to leave.

He craves for more _ ,  _ and  _ that  _ is the one feeling that Mal never has had about anything else but material – until now.

Mal would like to think that the elf is carrying a worry similar to his within him, too anxious (or too proud) to ask. With them, it seems like there is no other way to go about these matters, of vulnerability, feelings and fragile questions of “What am I to you?” except the one mastered so long ago: the bittersweet avoidance.

What he doesn’t quite notice, or pay attention to, is how instead of answering with a dry quip distinctive to him, Tyril frowns ever so slightly merely seconds after he announces his anticipated departure, hand tucking hair behind his ear in a manner that could only be described as  _ nervous _ . (Funnily enough, Mal’s own body language mimics his, brown waves tucked behind his ears as he slowly sits up and moves to the edge of the bed.)

Tyril reaches out to touch him, faltering when his fingertips are about to brush his back. If he touches him now, it could be a beginning of a change, of something new, that at the same time scares and fascinates him to no end. The reluctance to go exudes from Mal, and, though he never imagined he’d feel like this, Tyril doesn’t want him to leave either.

Their skins connect, not by accident nor in passing, the touch of his featherlight yet apparent, a gentle brush against Mal’s spine. It makes him shiver; and he  _ has _ shivered before, just like this, it never left his memory.

Tyril has left a path of tingling sparks dancing across his whole body; and Mal has fallen deeply in love with how he makes him feel more alive than any rush of adrenaline gotten out of found treasures.

He bites his lip, not daring to face him, he speaks so quietly it’s almost a whisper, “Can I—”

“You could—”

_ Stay.  _ Never a part of their vocabulary as a standalone, only accompanied by either “don’t” or “away”, not even once presented by itself. Mal moves to slip back under the covers, but hesitates.

“Are you sure?”

Tyril’s gaze, still as deep as the ocean, rests on him, the sparkle of his eyes as soft as his voice, “Stay.”

It’s such a beautiful word, used on its own. Mal’s face blossoms with a shade of crimson as he shuffles to lay on his side, next to Tyril, not sure if to look directly at him or a little past. They settle in more comfortably, a silence again taking over.

Neither dares to break it.

*

The break of dawn feels more like a dream, the room engulfed by mellow sunlight, and a familiar scent, brisk and a little floral takes over when Mal inhales deep in his morning daze. He’s wrapped in something blue, he notices, eyes peeking open just enough to witness so, then burying his face in Tyril’s chest with a content sigh.

He murmurs quietly, “You awake?” and Tyril stirs in an instant, not answering in words but by nuzzling into his dreamy waves, taking a deep breath in. Mal whispers wishes of good morning and Tyril gathers him tighter in his arms, both letting sleep carry them away once more.

The next time his eyes open, they are met by Tyril’s gaze, ice-cold in color and distant, thoughtful. With great effort, he extracts himself from his embrace, taking a better look at him (as if to double-check that this is real, waking up in his arms, almost wanting to pinch himself to make sure that this isn’t another wine-infused dream; thank the gods it  _ isn’t _ ), a tired smile rising on his lips.

“Hey, you,” Mal murmurs.

“Good morning,” he answers, “I half-expected you’d had sneaked out during the night.”

Mal smirks, drawing confidence from the fondness that Tyril’s voice is tinged with, to shuffle a little closer, not yet touching but almost, “I  _ did _ give it a thought, but here I was, in a big, comfy bed with a grumpy elf, who’s obligated by his faith to—”

“Please,  _ don’t— _ gods help me, the day has barely begun and you’re already doing this?”

“Liven up a little, lordling, now won’t you?” Mal grins, biting his lower lip as his gaze flits between Tyril’s eyes and his mouth, “Have some sense of humor.”

Tyril rolls his eyes, though the gesture isn’t as pained as it usually is, “I have plenty, I’ll let you know. It may come as a shock to you, but not everyone finds your wits amusing, Your Magnificence.”

“Ah, so you still admit I’m magnificent,” he inches closer still, noses brushing against each other. Tyril holds his gaze and shakes his head, yet breaks out in a smile.

“In other ways, perhaps.”

His hand rests on Mal’s waist, fingers curling and straightening, stroking his skin gently.

The sight of him is something out of fairytales, the sunlight and white sheets bringing out the bronze of his skin, eyes and hair even darker, the tattoo of his wrist bright crimson. When Mal reaches out to touch him, Tyril catches his hand, bringing it to his mouth, first kissing his palm and then revering the ink that had brought them together in the first place, lips curved into a shy smile and soft against it.

This time, Mal doesn’t shudder or ache. Tyril lets go, head tilting so their noses touch again, and Mal’s hand finds a place cupping the nape of his neck.

”You’ve got a great smile, elf boy,” he teases, lured in by the lingering curve on the Tyril’s lips, “I could stand to see more of it.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m not in the habit of idle flattery, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Well,” Tyril murmurs, lips brushing Mal’s when he speaks, so deliciously close yet so painfully far still, “I think I can stand doing it a little more often, then.”

He touches his fingers to Mal’s cheekbone, hand cupping his face. Mal wraps his fingers around his wrist, their eyes locking heavy-lidded, breaths so shallow from anticipation that for a moment it seems like they’ve stopped breathing altogether.

Tyril kisses him softly at first, the touch of their lips barely stronger than a mere graze, the kind that makes you doubt if it even was a kiss at all. There comes a pause, not longer than a few beats of a heart, and Mal’s eyes fall shut when Tyril returns to his lips again, this time firmer yet still gentle, and the taste and feeling of him steals what is left of Mal’s breath (and he can feel Tyril’s hand trembling ever so slightly against his cheek too, and it would make him laugh if he wasn’t so damn out of it right now.)

Tyril’s arm tightens around him and he tugs him closer, chest to chest, skin to skin, blushing violet up to the tips of his ears that twitch at the shaky moan escaping Mal, a heated breath against his mouth as their kisses grow more urgent, more insistent. His hand winds up in the dark brown sea of his hair, twisting lightly and beckoning another sigh that takes the form of Tyril’s name.

“Say it again,” he breathes,  _ begs _ , and Mal laughs faintly.

“ _ Tyril. _ ”

“Come here,” he guides Mal to straddle his lap, sitting up to meet him in yet another kiss. Tyril’s hands roam up and down, fingertips pressing into skin and against his spine, making him arch against him. Gods, he doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this. Burning out and from within, Mal has set him afire.

Maybe he feels it too, for the crimson of his cheeks deepen with every collision of their mouths, arms looped around Tyril’s neck, kisses dragging and desperate and all-consuming, teeth catching lips and tongues mending the delicious sting after.

Tyril tastes the very essence of rebellion that makes Mal the kind of person he is (he catches a faint taste of Celestial icewine still on his tongue), it manifests itself in the language they’ve come to speak so often now, though never quite like this.

His palms go up to rest on each side of Mal’s face for a while and he pulls back, the heat of this one blessed morning moment, the genesis of  _ their  _ universe, flaming purple on his own. Tyril tucks the brown, messy waves of hair gently behind his ears, a hint of a smile rising on his lips as Mal looks down at him with wonder and desire.

Tyril brushes his lips with his thumb, eyes dropping down on them too, bruised red and swollen. They are one of the, if not the most, beautiful things he’s ever seen.

“Did you, by chance, hit your head yesterday?” Mal asks, brow (the one cut in half) quirking up, as does the corner of his mouth.

“What?”

“You’re  _ kissing  _ me,” he says, “and you’re  _ smiling _ .”

For a second it seems like Tyril is about to frown, but instead he lets out a short laugh and shakes his head.

“And you’re  _ talking _ ,” he leans in to pepper kisses, short and sweet, across his cheekbones, skin warm under his lips, “when your mouth could be used to do something much better.”

“Oh, really?” Mal grins, his head falling back when Tyril travels down to his jaw, the hollow of his throat, to his collarbones, “Then you’d better come back up and—”

Silencing him with another kiss proves to be much more effective than any other trick he has tried earlier. Mal’s fingers tangle in his hair, giving them a gentle tug and they fall back down, anchored in each other’s embrace, devouring one another like they’re endlessly famished, a hunger that could never be possibly satisfied running their every instinct.

Mal purrs huskily against his mouth, fingertips brushing the side of his throat lightly, “Do you think you still have some worship left in you, elf boy?”

Tyril takes a firm hold of Mal’s hips, bodies flush together, nails digging deep into his flesh, and draws out a broken moan that mixes beautifully with his laugh. He kisses him again (and again and again and again), it feels like now that he has returned to his lips, it’s impossible to leave.

And so, he stays. Mal keeps looking for stars found in Tyril’s eyes, and for a while, they are the only sparkle he cares for, tongues coming to speak each other’s names more times than they will ever repeat their own.


End file.
